THE SENTINEL and all related characters are the property of Paramount and Pet Fly Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. Please don't sue me. If you do, you'll get $12.00 in cash, my sympathies for your being anal-retentive, along with two dogs, Teddy Bear, the spawn of hell, and his sister, BooBoo Bear, the big old donkey girl. FYI, all mistakes belong to them, since they were my freelance typists on this particular effort.
This story was originally published by My Mongoose E-zine in the THE MANY ADVENTURES OF JIM AND BLAIR issue.
Before anybody pipes up and says, "This couldn't possibly have happened - nobody's that stupid," let me assure you that many of the story elements I used as background were essentially true. (Philadelphia has a plethora of colorful criminals and wannabes. Hey, my town gave the world Harry "the Hunchback" Riccobene. Would I lie to you?)

Some things never change, like the sound of ocean waves calming me down faster than almost anything I can think of. (Sort of surprising, since I have this thing about open water.) We've only been here at the New Jersey shore a few hours, and I'm already freaking serene.

Sandburg was right. (Like that was something new?) This was a good idea.

How had my partner and I managed to stop a crime, nab the perp, deliver him back safe and sound to Philadelphia without any incident to speak of, and score a few days off in the process? This is what happened. The names, as they say, have been changed, to protect the innocent, the guilty and the incredibly dumb.

It all started with an angry comment made by an unhappy Don at a Memorial Day barbeque to no one in particular. It was overhead by a wise-guy wannabe who decided to better his station in life. That's how Rico "the Fucile" ("rifle" in Italian) Positani entered the picture. He got that particular nickname because of his fondness for using a Ruger Rimfire in situations where a handgun would have been a lot more practical - and certainly way easier to conceal.

The first question you'd have to ask yourself: what kind of East Coast mafioso wakes up one morning and says, "Hey, I think I'll earn my chops in Washington State?"

Give you a hint: one who's not the brightest bulb in the package. In a nutshell, that was Rico the Rifle. (As my partner, Blair Sandburg, is so fond of saying, "To call this guy stupid would be an insult to stupid people everywhere.")

And if you could blow past all of that, Rico had the consummate bad luck to come to my town. Big mistake. Huge. Why? Because the Great City of Cascade has a protector. That would be me - Detective and Sentinel James J. Ellison.

And it gets better - or worse -- depending on your point of view. (This story could make "World's Dumbest Crooks" video with no trouble.) Apparently, Philadelphia's Don Luigi LaGambi had been at odds with the younger Menna over disputed cross-country trucking rights. They'd been arguing about it for at least a year, that the Feds knew of. I guess Mr. LaGambi was tired of being disrespected by a member of the younger generation -- which is what he must have said, in so many words, over wine and weenies on Memorial Day.

Enter long-on-muscle, short-on-brains Rico the Rifle, with a Supersaver ticket and a purpose in life. Unfortunately, it was piss-poor judgment compounded by even piss-poorer luck because he hadn't even bothered to find out if his target would be in town. In fact, Victor Menna, the wife and kiddies were vacationing at Disneyworld when Rico touched down at Sea-Tac. And it's not as if it were any big secret. The PD knew the Mennas were out of town. So did the FBI. And most people who kept up with the comings and goings of our more colorful citizenry. (If push came to shove, I bet Mickie and Minnie knew.)

Anyway, when Rico Positani found out his big plan was a technical bust, he set his pretty-much unused mind to figuring out a way of salvaging the trip and getting out of the doghouse he would definitely be in back home. (The Mafia isn't the most forgiving of organizations.) Rico decided to conduct a little impromptu business to show his personal style and initiative. He was going to set up a discount "crank" deal with local talent. If all went well, the crystal methamphetamine in question would be transported from Canada in several of the LaGambi tractor-trailers, under several tons of New Jersey tomatoes - and right under the noses of the Menna family. Could he have actually done it?

Who the hell knows. But picking Cascade was the big mistake.

Now, here's where it gets good. Major Crimes got wind of the whole screwy set-up through one of our C.I.s - Confidential Informant. R.J. Jones, a 'flesh manager' as he liked to call himself, ran a stable of sidewalk hostesses in Cascade's red light district, including Tall Tania. Now, the Rifle thought of himself as a ladies' man, and always found company when he was away from hearth and home. During this trip, it was Tall Tania who caught his fancy in her blonde wig, eight-inch stiletto heels and matching bull whip. After their 'transaction was completed, Rico pillow-talked about this and that, and asked if she knew anybody who might help him out with his distribution problem. Tall Tania called R.J., who, after giving the matter some consideration, decided that this information might be useful in currying favor with Major Crimes. So, R.J. laid pipe with the Rifle, bragging about his connections, then paid us a visit. For his fulfilling his civic duty, Mr. Jones was given the thanks of the gold shields, and the promise of cash if it all worked out.

That's how Sandburg and I ending up going undercover as Big Eddie Villar and Little Artie Kessler, two low-life blips on the Cascade crime scene who R.J. said could move anything. It's also how, after exchanging a hefty sample of product for an obscenely large envelope of cash, the Rifle was arrested, carted off, and was arraigned on a slew of criminal charges the following week. After enjoying our hospitality for some little while, Rico was unceremoniously packed up, and shipped back to the City of Brotherly Love because racketeering charges had to be filed in the jurisdiction where the crime in question was initiated.

At least that's what the Feds told Simon Banks, my boss, who, in turn, told me as he snarled about paperwork being done before "Your butt leaves this office." He also told me to pack light - this was going to be a fast trip out and back. I, in turn, told the same thing to Blair Sandburg, my partner and best friend. He, in turn, did a dance like Snoopy on designer drugs. Right in the middle of the bull pen. Everybody, including the bagel girl, dropped whatever the hell they were doing to watch the little performance. I asked Sandburg why he felt compelled to embarrass himself and, by extension, me.

"Because, Jim, life is good. And this will give us -more importantly, you - some chill time. In case you haven't noticed, for the last couple of months, you've been one big nerve."

I was tempted to say, "Yes, I have, and you're getting on it," but resisted because it would only prove his point. Besides which, Blair was right. (I'd been pretty much a pain the ass to everybody for the entire months of July and August.)

Even as I slammed desk drawers looking for unfinished files that had been misplaced or had disappeared in the vortex of our work area, Blair was already seeing the bigger picture: Jim Ellison plus handcuffed crook plus federal warrant plus big metal bird in sky equaled R-O-A-D T-R-I-P with partner in tow. Yessir, in Sandburg's ever-active, slightly chaotic mind, escorting Mr. Rico B. Positani, to one of the Federal Government's finer correctional facilities on the East Coast, meant that there were places to see, things to do, and a decent per diem to accomplish it all - even if we only had three days.

And to hear my partner's riff, it was definitely something that I couldn't tackle alone, and opinion which, of course, he shared with the Captain. "Hey, Simon, you know what kind of trouble Jim can get into by himself. He's gonna need back up, right?" He gestured to his eyes and ears, then wiggled his fingers in the air - a Sandburgian shorthand for my Sentinel senses. (As if our Captain had somehow blanked out the past four years.)"Right? Am I right or am I right?" Not to worry. After all this time, my partner had Simon Banks aligned to his way of thinking. So, the two of us accompanying the still-befuddled "Where did it all go wrong?" bad guy back to Philadelphia was a foregone conclusion.

You had to love it. And him. Sandburg, I mean.

I did. I do. I love Blair like a friend and a brother in arms. He's the best partner a cop could ever have: Sandburg's smart, courageous, compassionate, and with enough resourcefulness for a whole squad of detectives.

On the other side of the coin, I've recently noticed myself looking at Sandburg differently. I'm not quite sure how it happened, but somewhere between "Blair, my cousin's kid," and Detective B.J. Sandburg, I started wanting to see him in a less formal setting -- a naked on the bed, love him stupid, violate him six ways to Sunday, and leave him screaming for more kind of thing. After all these years of platonic touching, giving him mega-noogies like the big brother from hell, having him in my face and in my space, I've come to realize that I want him ...closer. Closer as in lying next to me ... or over me ... or in me, if I were a truly lucky S.O.B. Listen, I'm not the only G.I. Joe-looking ex-Army officer who's walked both sides of the street. But, see, when I got back from Peru - where this whole Sentinel thing got rolling -- I made some life-style choices. First off, I opted out of the service. Then I decided that women would become my preference. Hell, that worked out so well, I even took the plunge and got married. (For details, talk to my "ex," Carolyn Plummer, or, better yet, her divorce lawyer.)

In hindsight, it wasn't smart. You can't change who you really are. But as a cop, it was just easier to date women. I didn't have to spend a lot of time watching my pronouns -- or my back, for that matter.

And I guess things would have gone along that way indefinitely, if my senses hadn't flared up, or if a 5'8 -160 lb. trouble magnet of a Rainier teaching assistant hadn't careened into my life, with a book on Richard Burton (the 19th Century explorer, not the actor) and an obfuscation for any occasion.

It wasn't easy for Sandburg back then. I was tougher on him than almost anyone else I knew, which was probably why I had zip friends. The people I worked with - first in Vice, then in Major Crimes -- thought I was a better-than-average cop, the kind of guy you'd work with because your arrest numbers would be good, but not someone you'd want to have a beer and pizza with. That all changed when Sandburg became a permanent fixture in my life.

Back then, what I couldn't stand was needing to ask for help from someone like him - or having to need help in the first place. (It's a time-honored tradition of all the uptight, emotionally-stunted men who carry the name "Ellison." Just ask my dad, William, or my brother, Stephen.) Sandburg was just closer to the fallout zone, so he took the brunt of it. Luckily, Blair didn't notice that I was less than thrilled having him around. Or, if he did, he didn't care. Or if he noticed and cared, he didn't show it. With all his bullshit, Blair slipped under my radar, finagled his way into the PD as a consultant, and moved into my loft, with a Barbary ape, no less. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, the kid also burrowed his way under my skin, hitting my heart in the process. And since things have evolved, you could say, not only does Blair Sandburg lay claim to my ticker, his ownership rights extend further south. That's why, more often than not, I seem to be hard or close enough to it to pound nails in the loft wall.

It happens at the weirdest times. Like when my partner tucks a strand of hair behind his ear as he concentrates on a report he's reading. Or when he studies a crime scene photo, and rubs his thighs with both hands before sharing some insight that's hit him. Or when he looks at me over his shoulder, through those damned little professor glasses he still wears. Or when he's trying to decide whether to get the General Tao chicken or the moo shu pork ... hell. You get the picture. I'm hard all the time.

Oh, in his own way, I know Blair loves me back. Just not that way. Sandburg likes them tall, leggy, and female, the operative word being "female."

But it's okay. So, I'm not his cup of tea. I'd still rather have my guide in my life, no matter how can get him. If I dropped this kind of bombshell on Sandburg and ended up seeing his skid-marks out the door, I don't know what I'd do.

So where was I? Oh, yeah. Sitting here, in early September, on a pretty-much deserted beach in Brigantine, New Jersey, next to Sandburg, who's reading one of the four - count them - four books he brought for a three-day trip. I had every intention of hitting the Borgata, chowing down at Suilan, Susanna Foo's Restaurant, maybe doing a little gambling, sleeping a couple of hours, then heading on back to the Pomona Airport on Friday.

I'd forgotten that my roommate never met a trip or expedition he didn't like, couldn't plan for, and jam twice as much living - and fun -- into it as any human being I know. In Sandburg's little note book, 72 hours broke down to:

*Hour 1 - Deplane in Philadelphia/pick up rental car.*

*Hour 2 - Make way to F.B.I. Headquarters on Arch Street. Meet with Agent Dave Mettler, our Philadelphia liaison. Hand over sad-sack prisoner Sabatino, Fredrico B.*

*Hours 3/4 - Finish up paperwork.
Buy a cheesesteak.
See the Liberty Bell.
Kiss Philly goodbye.*

*Hours 5 through 70 - Hit the Jersey Shore. Do whatever the hell we want.*

*Hours 71-72 - Arrive at Pomona, NJ Airport. Drop off the rental car.
Run like sons-of-bitches for the plane. Go home.*

The Wednesday night red-eye from Seattle got us into Philly at 9:00 AM. After taking care of the third member of our little entourage, a dejected Rico Positani, and depositing him safe and sound with Agent Mettler, we opted to leave the churches, museums, and places of civic interest for another time. (The Benjamin Franklin Bridge saw our dust a few minutes before noon.)

That's how, in hour six, we checked into the Island Inn, an immaculately clean hotel right on the beach in Brigantine, the small island north of Atlantic City. (Sandburg had, of course, gone online and investigated all of the possibilities in our price range even as the ink dried on the extradition paperwork.)

He'd also made a few other executive decisions he chose not to share until we hit Harbor Boulevard. We were going to kick back and get in touch with our inner beach bums. (There'd be no stale casino air on this trip.) That's how we ended up sitting side by side on an enormous "Are We Having Fun Yet?" towel from the Inn's gift shop, rather than seeing if we could pull a straight flush out of our hat, or make 11 the easy way.

Munching on king-sized hoagies Sandburg had me stop and buy at the Wawa Convenience Store (roast beef for me, turkey for him,) we watched the occasional jogger and tracked a few sailboats cruising across the horizon. My partner and I started throwing down the first of two six-packs of Pepsi like it was going out of style as we enjoyed the waves rolling in and out, and did our best to shoo away an army of persistent seagulls that were swooping around looking for a handout.

Sun, sky, and sea ... Blair settled back and just took it all in. After finishing up the Ringdings (yes, I never met a junk food I didn't like), he slid down a little, using the beach bag we'd brought with us for a pillow. I could hear his breath even out and the rhythm of his heart slow down. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Sandburg's head nodding, and a small trickle of saliva roll down his chin. He was like a puppy with a full stomach needing to sleep the big meal off, complete with twitching nose and little pink tongue protruding between his small, pearly-white teeth. The only thing my partner didn't do was wag his tail, as he dreamt about whatever the hell it is he dreams about. It was a picture I'd store away and take out on some drab winter's day.

I could have eaten Blair alive, he was so beautiful.

But, first things first. "Hey, chief. Wake up! If you're going to sack out, you'd better use that suntan stuff. I don't want to spend the rest of our vacation packing your sunburned ass in ice."

The mumbled retort was vulgar, but my partner listened, roused himself, took out a tube of suntan lotion -- also purchased at the gift shop -- opened it, squirted a dollop onto his hand, then started massaging the coconut-scented emulsion onto his chest. The golden thatch of hair was slightly damp from the salt air, making it curl into ringlets. I tried not to watch too closely as Sandburg stroked downward until he reached the edge of his old, threadbare cutoffs. He paused just for a second, before pulling the waistband away from his body. That little bit of action revealed a strip of much paler skin, on which he methodically rubbed some of the lotion. Back and forth, back and forth. I said a silent prayer that my partner would stop touching himself there before I commandeered the job from him - and we both ended up on "NEWS AT 11."

In the middle of the X-rated reverie, Blair nudged my arm, and handed the slippery tube to me. "Here, man. You, too." He was right. I needed it. Even though I'd already used an entire bottle of special hypoallergenic sunscreen we'd brought from Cascade, I was wearing ... showing a lot more ... the thing was ... I'd never be caught ... This all started because, for whatever reason, I'd forgotten to pack my surfer trunks. (Don't even go there with any psychological mumbo-jumbo about why.) Anyway, I'd have been been just as happy sitting on the beach in my chinos, but Sandburg nixed that idea right off the bat. ("What? And listen to you bitch the whole flight back about 'sand here, sand there, sand everywhere'? Get real, man.") So, after he'd plunked down a considerable piece of our per diem for the towel, some gum, and the extra tube of Fiji Blend, my partner made an end-of-summer deal, buying the one bathing suit nobody in his right mind would actually wear. At least not in public. How in hell he talked me into it, I'll never know. Well, yes, I do know. The kid can talk me into anything.

Including this damned mother of a purple Speedo.

"Jim, what's the problem? It's just you, me, a bunch of seagulls, and a few strangers who are never going to see you again. Believe me, you don't have anything I haven't seen before. Plus which, it only cost a couple of bucks. It was too good of a bargain to pass up." (Sandburg's always saying that his people know three things: guilt, bargains, and where to get good Chinese food. On this trip, he was two for three.) As I stuffed all things Ellison into the eye-patch of a suit, I was tempted to ask Sandburg where I was going to put my service weapon.

"We'll carry our guns in the beach bag." My partner's the psychic member of the team.

So, that's how we found ourselves on the 29th Street Beach, enjoying what felt like a stolen afternoon together. Outside of having to dig enough sand from the crack in my ass to build a respectable-sized castle, I have to say it was a great day. One of the best for Blair and me. The sky was cloud-free, the air hot but not stifling, the salt water warm and rough enough to make my skin tingle as I body-surfed the waves, and the company first-rate -- like always. For this little stretch of time and space, there was no Alex, no dissertation, no problems to speak of. Only us.

The downside, if you can call it that, was my senses being thrown into overdrive each and every time I surfaced to catch a glimpse of Sandburg lying there on the oversized towel, his golden skin glistening everywhere from lotion and perspiration. My partner had used lots of protective balm on his lips, too, so they were full, wet and inviting - just asking to be taken. Finally, the sea breeze whipped that tousled auburn mane around, like live bait being waved under a predator's nose. Blair was ripe for the plucking, like late-summer strawberries. I've never wanted anyone so much in my life.

I dove back into the water. It was safer for everybody concerned.

The afternoon drifted by in a pleasant haze, rolling into early evening before I dragged myself out of the surf. I headed toward the rucked-up, sand-covered towel where Sandburg was now snoring. I'd kept an eye on him for the last couple of hours, not just because he was so beautiful (he was), but to make sure he wasn't getting too much sun. Blair had been okay -- better than okay. Sprawled out like this, he looked like a fallen statue of some erotic nymph. Kneeling down, I smoothed the fabric down and brushed it off, and tried chasing away enormous flies that had taken to buzzing around the remaining soda bottles -- and my partner. Greenheads - the bane of existence in Brigantine - dive-bombed around Sandburg's moist mouth and eyes and ruined my art appreciation moment, as he shook his head, sat up grumpily and swatted the bothersome insects away.

"That's what you get for smelling like an Almond Joy, chief."

"Damn! These things are the size of pitbulls!" He looked in my direction, and almost blinded me with that smile of his. "Hey, Jim."

"Hey, yourself."

"How was the water?"

"Terrific."

"You looked like you were having a terrific time."

"Was."

"Glad we passed on the casino?"

"Yeah, I am, as a matter of fact."

"Had enough?"

Of you, Sandburg? Not if I live to be a hundred. "I guess."

"So what do you want to have for dinner?"

The frigging loaded question of the ages. As we shot the breeze about culinary options we could walk to, my butt cheeks sucked in the back of the Speedo, and a pail full of sand for good measure. Both would probably have to be surgically removed. I tried digging the strip of fabric out of my ass. "I should make you wear this thing."

"Stop complaining. You are, like, the total babe magnet of all time."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I started tapping the sand out of my loafers before putting them on. Christ, Sandburg was right. Sand here. Sand there. Sand everywhere.

"You don't see that bunch of women checking you out?" My eyes followed the highlights dancing in Blair's hair as he nodded toward several patrons sitting at the hotel deck bar, all with drinks in their hands.

All looking our way.

"They stayed an extra hour, big guy, just to watch you splashing around."

"Get the hell out of here." I think he was right.

"And come out of the water." I know he was right.

"Sandburg -" I hated him.

"Wet. And. Wild." No, I didn't.

"You are so dead -" I loved him to pieces.

"-in an electric grape Speedo. Oh, and just in case, you hadn't noticed," Blair lifted his left hand over his head and waved, "you've been immortalized." The grandmother in the end chair returned the greeting - with a Sureshot throwaway camera clutched in her hand.

"Oh, fuck."

Somewhere down the line, 4"x6" Walgreen glossies of me would be passed around a dining room table, maybe in some nice South Philly row home, shown as part of "Nana's Trip to A.C."

Even I had to laugh. "Well, here's another fine mess you've gotten me into, Sandburg."

My partner leaned back on his elbows.

"I didn't do it, Jim. It was you. In that suit."

"Got any other bright ideas?" I took a swig of the last bottle of Pepsi, which was now way past tepid.

"Yeah." Blair rested his head against his canvas pillow, and his eyes fluttered closed. "You could take the suit off."

I did what's called a spit-take in show business vernacular. I wiped the warm soda from my chin. "Jesus Christ, Sandburg! Warn a guy, why don't you? That's a hell of a thing to say."

What was Blair saying? It couldn't be that, could it? No. I'd just had too much sun today, and not enough sex in recent memory.

Or maybe it could be.

"Sorry, Jim." Sandburg opened those lethal baby blues of his, and a tiny smile found its way to the corners of his mouth. "I thought it's something you might have wanted to hear. But, maybe you need something a little more ... direct."

And before that loaded last word passed through my partner's lips, his right hand, shining with the last of Fiji Blend, plopped on my left thigh and squeezed. If my dick hadn't responded by swelling to twice its normal size and threaten to make a break for it, I'd have jumped straight up off the towel.

As it was, I couldn't move. (Again, the "NEWS AT 11" thing.) Funny, the only thing that popped to mind was one of Isaac Newton's principles: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

I wished Camera Lady could get a shot of Blair's reaction: his eyes were bugging out of his head. But that was followed by a look that I hadn't seen very often on my partner's face. I think it was one of pure, unadulterated satisfaction, as though Sandburg had been right about something all along, and now there was proof positive, like the ultimate "tell."

In my Speedo.

"So, Jim, have anything you'd like to share with the class?"

"Wanna see my dick dance around?" was the first thing that popped to my mind, but I figured it wasn't the best -- let alone the most romantic -- thing I could say. "Uh, uh ..." was what I came up with -- besides a 'happy' the size of our rental car.

"That's one of the things I've always loved about you." Blair's fingers tightened their grip on my upper thigh, as his thumb gently pressed into the crease where my leg joined the trunk of my body.

"What ... " I started running through aliases we could use when we were arrested by the Beach Patrol. (For a minute there, I considered using "Simon Banks" but decided against it.)

"That you really know how to get a guy's attention." Blair tilted his compact body toward mine, making a visual barrier between us and anyone who wanted to know what the little hippie in cutoffs and the big dope in a purple suit were up to.

Shit. The women. I bet they thought we were gay. Correction, I knew they thought that. I could hear them. The woman in the oversized tee-shirt started it off. "What a waste! Mr. Speedo and Curlytop are so damned attractive."

The younger woman in a tankini tossed in her two cents. "Trust me. The way they're looking at each another, it's not going to be wasted."

Everyone chuckled, then took another sip of their drinks. The woman with the Bloody Mary whispered to her friend in a hideous, floppy hat, "So, what do you think, Barb? When they do it, who's on, you know, the top? Which one's the bottom?"

"Hey, Syl, if it's not one of us, I don't give a fat rat's ass."

The raucous laughter almost deafened me. At that point, I stopped listening. It was getting pretty crude. Filthy, actually. And I've been in a war, for God's sake.

"So what are they saying, Jim?" The smile on my partner's face proved he already knew the answer.

"You know, girl talk." I sounded like a breathless virgin because Sandburg's magic fingers were playing pit-a-pat over my dick, which was now standing practically straight up, being wrestled into submission by the damned Speedo. "Chief ... I'm begging you--"

"I like the sound of that. Come on, man. There's nobody around. We've got a huge towel that'll cover the both of us. And your eyes and ears can give us a heads up, if anybody wanders our way."

"Here? On the beach? Sandburg, have you lost your mind?"

"No, I've finally found it, Jim. I'm talking about us, you big jerk. Here. Now. Getting together. Getting it on. We've waited long enough, don't you think?" Then, Blair laid his head on my thigh, and began placing small kisses near the elastic around the leg hole. As he moved downward slowly, tonguing my inner thigh, I could feel his breath tickling the head of my dick through the purple material. The Speedo was wet again, and it wasn't because of high tide. One more whisper of movement and I'd be in serious trouble.

"Love you, Jim."

That did it. I came like a freight train. To stop from screaming out loud, I clenched my teeth together so hard I could hear stress fractures spidering all over the place.

A few minutes later -- when I recovered the top of my skull -- all I could think was Damn, what a feeling. When I looked stock of the situation, it changed to Damn, what a mess. Some of the evidence of our "first time" had splattered on Sandburg's cheek.

"Hey, chief, you, uh, have ..."

Blair rubbed a finger through the wetness, then touched it gingerly to the tip of his tongue. "Hmm...better than salt water taffy."

I'm past forty, and I could feel myself beginning to come to life again. Well, parts of me were.

"Sandburg ..."

"We're going to have to take some home for the guys." The incredulous look I gave him made my partner laugh loud. It was rich, warm, and inviting. "Taffy, I mean." The sound carried down the beach to the ladies who were on their fourth round of drinks. The tankini woman raised her glass and mouthed, "Cheers" to the two of us. The caftan lady joined her, snatching a stalk of celery out of her drink and waving it in our direction.

"I can't believe it. Jim Ellison 'blushing.'"

The last time I'd felt this way, I was 10 and Sally, my dad's housekeeper, found me in my bedroom with a copy of PLAYBOY.

"Hey, Jim, relax. They're happy for us. Women are great. They always like to see people in love."

"Is that what we are, Sandburg?" I grumbled as I tried using the edge of the towel to clean up. The only thing I succeeded into doing was mixing sand into everything else congealing on my lower body.

"Sure we're in love, man. What did you think this was?" Blair sat up, reached over and brushed my lips with his, then sat back on his heels. He tasted like Pepsi, turkey, coconut ... and me. I suddenly wanted to dive-bomb my tongue down his throat and never let go.

I would. But not here. "Beats the hell out of me, Sandburg. What do you say we take it inside and 'talk about it.'"

"Nah. 'Talk's my bag." Blair tapped the sides of my face two-handed (the way I always did to him) before standing up, heaving the duffel bag over his shoulder, and heading toward the inn. "From you, I want 'action.'"

I did some quick calculations. Son of a bitch. We still had hours 10 through 71 to work on it. Ten through 72, if the two of us ran like hell for Delta Flight 625.

I smiled, showing all my stress-fractured teeth. "Doable, chief. Doable."

End Brigantine by akablonded: akablonded@aol.com
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